When We Were Young
by SailAway
Summary: The year is 1978, and all the characters of ER are children, and living on the same street. This follows their relationships during that summer.
1. Elizabeth

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the ER characters, no matter how much I wish I did. However, the plots are all mine. Please do not sue me. 

  
  


SUMMARY: Kind of an alternate universe type thing. This is written as if all of the ER characters were children or teenagers at the same time, living in the same neighborhood in Chicago. Also, I don't think that all of the characters ages really line up correctly with how old they should be during the year 1978. Bear with me.

  
  


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CHAPTER ONE: ELIZABETH

I live in London, a city which far surpasses any other city. Ever. So when my father told me we were going on vacation to Chicago, I was none too pleased. What would I want with a bunch of Yanks? And anyway, it was not at all a true vacation. We were merely going to the far away city because of a medical convention of some sort for my father.

I personally was not at all interested. It was summer, and I had dreams of trips to the Mediterranean with my best friend Renee. But instead, I would be spending over a month in a place that wasn't even on an ocean. What would summer be without going to the beach?

My father tried to cheer me up. "We're going to rent a house. It won't be like a dirty hotel for that long. We'll be in a neighborhood. You'll make friends. You might not even want to leave!" He told me. None of it made me feel any better.

I prepared myself for the worst. I expected 120 degree weather, old houses, and dirty children. 

We found the rented house easily enough. Located on Laurel Street, it was a nice, new house. While not exactly big, it was a decent size for the two of us for a month. And to my surprise, the weather was not 120 degrees, though it did feel close some days.

I did, however, see quite a few dirty children. From my second floor bedroom window, I could plainly see quite a few children playing in the street below. They all looked sweaty and gross to me, especially since I was so used to boarding schools where all the children much be kept clean. 

Eventually, my father forced me to go outside, stating that I was making him miserable by seeing my gloomy face for so long.

So I did go outside. I sat on the kerb to watch a game of basketball that was being played by some boys in the driveway next to ours. The boys were all perhaps a few years older than me, but it was more fun to watch them than to watch the younger children playing with jump-ropes and yoyos in the street.

I began to get bored, so I didn't notice when a basketball came bouncing towards me. It hit me in the head, and I jumped, startled. A taller boy, striking to say the least, came loping over to retrieve it. "I'm sorry," he said, "At least you stopped the ball!" He chuckled. I glared at him. Being hit in the head with a large, orange object was not my cup of tea.

He noticed me glaring at him, and a goofy grin lit up his face. "Really, I'm sorry. I'm not the loser who can't keep his hands on the ball, anyway. That was Peter who let it hit you. Apology accepted?" He asked, his brown eyes dancing.

I scowled. "Fine." I said, turning to walk away, back inside away from the crazy boys. 

The boy caught my hand as I turned to leave. "Hey, wait. You're new here. I can tell from your accent that you came from far away. To make up for this, how about I show you around some?" He looked so anxious that I would say yes. 

I stalled. "I don't even know your name."

"Mark. I'm Mark Greene, at your service." He shook my hand.

"I'm Elizabeth." I told him. He really did seem apologetic about the ball incident, and his eyes were so striking. And his hands so strong and manly, even though he couldn't be but a year or two older than me. And his dark, wavy hair was so beautiful. And his lips, the way the bottom one stuck out just a little bit. And- - -

He cut off my line of thought. "So? You want the grand tour of the neighborhood?"

I finally smiled a real smile at him. "Okay. I'd like that." 

A round of clapping started immediately after I agreed. I then realized the other boys were still there. 

Mark grinned sheepishly and turned to face them. "Sorry, guys, I'll catch up later, okay?" The other guys nodded and waved as Mark lead me away.

"So, where are you from?" He asked me.

"London," I told him. Then the awkward silence began.

We walked without talking for several minutes. To pass the time, Mark began pointing out houses.

"That's the Malucci house. They've got four kids. The oldest is about 11, and the youngest is 6. That's the Ross house. My best friend Doug lives there. That's the Lewis house. They have two kids, both girls. That's the Romano house. They only have one kid, and he's older and really crabby. That's the Weaver house. They've got a couple of kids and one's a crip." The tour went on. He pointed out the houses and named who lived in each one on our street. By the time we were done, we had both gotten to be more friendly with each other. The awkward silenced were over, and we were laughing and talking.

We returned to my house, and Mark and I stood there in the driveway, looking at each other. "Bye," I said. It seemed so inadequate.

"Bye." He whispered to me. He leaned towards me, and we kissed. The kiss was short, but I still felt a plethora of emotions rush through my insides. We both broke away and I ran to my house. I felt so embarrassed. It was my first kiss. What if he really doesn't like me? I mean, the kiss was over so fast. If he really did like me, wouldn't it have lasted longer?

I ran inside, tearful, hoping that he didn't hate me after my poor showing.

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  



	2. Kerry

CHAPTER 2:

KERRY

  
  


"I hate you!" I screamed at my mother. My mother? She's not even my mother. My fifteenth birthday slowly became the worst day of my life.

I had woken up early that Saturday morning to the smell of banana pancakes being cooked in the kitchen, directly below my bedroom. I stretched in bed, a stupid grin lighting up my face. I was fifteen that day. Fifteen seemed like such an important birthday. I had been preparing for fifteen for weeks. It was the middle of summer, and I decided that fifteen was the year when I would become a real teenager. True, I had been a teenager for two years. But thirteen and fourteen were not the same. Then, I had long hair that I kept in a single braid and I never wore makeup. Now, I was to become a stunning super-model type. I had cropped my long hair to just above my shoulders, made my lips a sultry red, and brushed blue eyeshadow across my eyelids. 

So, maybe I looked a little bit like a clown, but at least I didn't look like a mere child any more. I was very proud of myself.

My little sister, Andrea, came bouncing into my room, singing a slightly off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday To You". I smiled at her and followed her down the stairs.

Both my parents and both of my sisters sat around the table, all grinning at me. A stack of presents were heaped on one seat, and I eagerly began to open them. Books, clothes, records. Everything a girl could hope for.

I looked at my mother, about to tell her how much I loved everything. I quickly shut my mouth when I saw the nervous expression on her face. "Mom, what's wrong?" I asked her. She smiled, tightly, and shushed me. 

"Kerry, after breakfast, we need to have a little talk." I pushed my glasses up my nose, not worried about it. My mother always liked to have little talks with me, asking if I was making friends, or if I was doing drugs. She always got nervous over silly things.

Breakfast ended, and my mother lead me back to my bedroom. I sat on the edge of my bed, my mother right beside me. "Kerry," She began, hesitantly, "I have something important to tell you. Your father and I didn't know when the right time was, but now that you are fifteen, we both agree that you are old enough to know the truth."

The way she was talking made me a little bit scared.

"Kerry, we adopted you when you were eleven months old. It was a closed adoption and we know nothing about your biological parents. I love you very much, as does your father."

I stared at her in shocked horror. Adopted? Me? My red hair, not at all like my father's blond crop or my mother's light brown. My blue eyes, while theirs were green and brown. I felt like my whole world had dropped out from beneath me. Where before I had answers, now I had questions. My voice seemed to have disappeared. 

"M. . .m . . ." All I could say was M. Repeatedly, I said M. Like a moron. A broken, stick figure of a person. I felt two dimensional. I hated myself, I hated my mother, I hated my father and my sisters. 

My voice slowly came back. "If it was a closed adoption, how do you know what happened to me? You told me that there was a car accident when I was two months old and that's when my leg got hurt. How do you know that?"

Mom hung her head. I guess I should call her Nora now. "We don't know what happened to you. The doctor told us that there was evidence of many fractures in your hips and legs, and that they hadn't healed properly. There was evidence of abuse. What did you want us to tell you? That someone else had beat you up when you were a baby? We just came up with a nicer story, one that wouldn't make you hate someone you didn't even know."

I glared at Lucille and stood up, trembling. "I hate you!" I screamed at her. I grabbed my crutch and hurried from the room. I could hear her crying behind me.

I grabbed my jacket and my purse on the way out. The street was noisy with the sound of children playing. I saw some kids in my class. They all ignored me. 

Pitying myself, I limped away, down the street. I got off Laurel Street and onto Pierce, then turned onto Asher, and hurried up one street, down another. I walked for several hours, and the neighborhoods slowly changed to become darker, with leather-clad men racing motorcycles up the street and women wearing short skirts standing on the street corners.

I knew that I was in a section of the city that I shouldn't be in. And yet, I was fascinated by it; and anyway, I was so angry with my mother and my whole family that I didn't care. I wanted to hurt them. I wanted to do something to make the woman who called herself my mother feel hurt and pain. I was almost hoping that I would get jumped by one of the terrifying men who stood around. Surprisingly, most seemed to ignore me. At most, I just got a few cursory glances from some of them. Apparently, I was completely unimportant to them, too.

A tattoo parlor suddenly stood in front of me. I knew what I wanted, suddenly. A tattoo. I knew it would hurt, but somehow, that pain would help me. Shoulders back, I walked in. A large woman, dark hair up in a sloppy ponytail and wearing a halter top sat in a chair, smacking her gum and singing along to the song on the radio. It was some old Elvis song, one that my mother liked. 

She glanced up at me. "Hello, hon." 

"Hi," I replied, uncertainly. I had never gotten a tattoo before, and I wasn't exactly sure how one would go about doing it. The woman was no help, as she seemed to be ignoring me now. "Um. . .I'd like a tattoo." 

"That would be the idea, kid. This is a tattoo parlor. Mike's the artist, and he's working on someone. Why don't you sit down for a few minutes, then he'll be out and you can tell him what you want."

I sank into a badly furbished chair, the stuffing coming out of one of the arms. But at least I was off my feet. As I glanced at my watch, I was surprised to notice that it was nearly three in the afternoon. I had been walking for hours, so involved in my thoughts that I hadn't noticed that I was hungry and tired. 

A burly man finally came out from a room that I hadn't noticed. A girl, probably just a year older than me, followed him out, her eyes teary, but a huge smile on her face. Her left sleeve was rolled up and I could see bandage on it, most likely covering her brand new tattoo.

The man came over to me. "So, you want a tattoo?"

I nodded my head. 

"How old are you?" He asked me.

I lied. "18."

He shrugged, and lead me into the room that the girl had just come from. "What do ya want?" 

What did I want? I wanted to know the truth about my family. I wanted the woman who had raised me to be truthful. I wanted lots of friends. I wanted to be beautiful.

Clearly, the man was not asking about that. He just wanted to know what kind of tattoo I wanted.

"I want a Phoenix, rising out of the flames, please, sir, on my arm, like where that other girl got hers." My voice was trembling, and I realized that I was scared.

The man pulled out the machine, attached the necessary parts, and rolled my sleeve up. I knees began shaking. "Just hold still, kid." He told me, roughly.

The needle came closer and closer to my arm. I bit my lower lip, anticipating the pain. It finally touched me, and I nearly screamed. It hurt so badly, and I realized that a tattoo was not going to help anything in my life. "Stop!" I yelled at him. 

He pulled the needle back, looking surprised. "I changed my mind." I told him, tears dripping down my face. I was a coward, that was it. Just a coward.

"Did you want a different design?" He asked. I shook my head.

He kind of growled, and left the room. I followed, hanging my head. The dark haired woman was right where we had left her. She looked at me, and saw me crying. She came over, patted me on the head, and said, "Honey, it's all right. I was thirteen the first time I tried to get a tattoo, and it scared me too much to have it completed. There's not shame in that." She pulled up her shirt, and I could see a line about an inch long starting partway around her bellybutton.

"How much do I owe you?" I asked in a wavery voice. 

She waved her hand. "No tattoo, no paying." She smiled. "I can tell this isn't you end of town, hon. You just sit right here, I'll call a taxi. It can bring you home. I bet your mom is worried sick. And she's probably going to be really pleased that you didn't get a tattoo."

She walked around to the desk and picked up the phone. I looked down at my arm. I could see a tiny black dot, so small that I had to search for it. No one would even notice it. In that moment, I hated myself. I was a coward, too afraid to even get a tattoo. I had no real family. The thought of suicide flashed across my mind, but I knew I could never kill myself.

The woman came back over to me. "Once you really are eighteen, you might want to try to get a tattoo again. But I think you look like a real nice kid, and not the type to get a tattoo. Whatever's eating at you, there are probably better ways to solve it than to mark yourself up." She squeezed my hand. I had to agree with her.

We both heard a car horn. She lead me outside, where a cab was waiting. Down the block, I could see two men fighting, a crowd growing around them, urging one and then the other to win. I was glad I was getting out of the neighborhood.

"Thank you." I whispered to the woman. She smiled, a lopsided smile. She looked pretty in that moment.

The car door shut, and we were on our way. I didn't want to go home, not then. I was still too angry with my mother. The cab driver dropped me off five blocks from my house, and I paid him. I was glad that I had already opened my birthday cards and that my purse was full of birthday money.

I went to a small restaurant and had a large dinner. I was starving from missing lunch. Afterwards, I slowly wandered around, stopping in a bookstore right before closing time to buy a book. Night was falling, and I still wasn't home. I looked in my house's direction. I couldn't go home yet. I still felt like no one loved me. 

I realized that I was on my street, still several blocks from home, but moving towards it. I felt that I couldn't return home until I could accept it that I was adopted. In the faint light, I could make out the shape of a playhouse in the yard of a house I was standing near. I crept into it, pleased at how nicely the small house was set up. 

There was a table, a bed, and even a box of Cheerio's sitting on the floor. I laid out on the bed, legs aching. Before I knew it, my eyes had closed and I was asleep.

Hours passed when I woke with a scream. Another scream echoed me. I sat bolt upright in bed, trying to see in the pitch darkness. A hand was resting on my shoulder.

"Shh!" A small voice shushed me. "Who are you?"

I was too startled to lie. "Kerry Weaver. Who are you?"

"I'm Sandy Lopez. Why are you in my playhouse?"

I was embarrassed. I didn't think that a little kid was going to wander in here in the middle of the night. If I had thought that, then I never would have came in.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to hide somewhere for a while, and I fell asleep. Why are you out here in the middle of the night?"

She sighed. "My parents are fighting. I hate it when they do that. It makes me scared. So I came out here to get away from them. What are you hiding from?"

"I'm hiding from my parents, too." 

She sat next to me on the bed. "I'm eleven. My brother is nineteen and in college. When he still lived here, he would hold my hand whenever our parents fought. Then I wouldn't be so scared."

In the dark, I reached for her hand. We sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped. I felt like I was protecting her from the fear of her parents, and she was absorbing some of my anger. 

We simultaneously laid back in the tiny bed. "It's after midnight," Sandy told me. "Do your parents know that you aren't home?"

"No." I answered shortly.

I could see the whites of her eyes. "They are probably worried about you."

They were worried about me, I knew that they were. Before, I had been so angry at them that it didn't even matter to me that they were worried. "I know, but I'm so mad at them. They really hurt my feelings. I can't go back yet."

"You can do whatever you want to do. I think you should stay here until the morning, and then go back. I remember once, when I was a little kid, maybe seven years old, I got lost at the mall. I was only gone for half an hour, but when my mom found me, she started crying because she was so scared. I don't think you should make your mom worry anymore." 

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me in the dark. "Thank you." 

"For what?" She sounded surprised that I was thanking her.

I didn't reply. I just reached over and hugged her.

Finally, I had found someone who made me feel loved.


	3. Abby

CHAPTER THREE: ABBY

  
  


"Ball three!" The ump yelled. I wound up, glared at the batter, and pitched the ball.

"Steee-rike one!" I pitched again. The batter swung at the air, nearly spun in a circle, and looked furious.

"Steee-rike two!" I looked down at the ball. The bases were loaded, there were two strikes and three balls, and it was the last out. We were ahead by one point, 14-13, so basically, this last pitch determined if there would be a tie, or if the Panther's or the Lion's won. It all depended on if and how well the batter hit this last ball. 

I threw the ball, and saw the batter ready himself. Everything seemed to be in slow motion as the ball came towards the boy. I crouched, praying that it would be a strike. 

The ball swooped towards him, seeming to float on the air. The boy swung, made a weak hit. My eyes opened wide, saw the ball come flying towards me. Still in slow motion, I leapt into the air, my glove high above my head, and felt the satisfying thud as the ball landed right into the sweet spot in the middle of my glove.

I held the ball to my face, a grin spreading across my face. 

"Yay Abby!" The team rushed over to me, hugging me and screaming my name. Almost in a trance, I just kept looking at that ball. 

I glanced over at the batter who had just lost the game for his team. He didn't look angry, but more dismayed, or disappointed, and embarrassed. He tossed the bat to the ground and slouched away. His teammates glared at him. We were going to the tri-county level now, after beating the Lions.

I finally broke from my reverie, leapt into the air, high-fived my teammates. "We did it!" I shouted. I hugged the other kids on the team. They all looked embarrassed, but a few hugged me back, in the manner of most men folks: the one armed hug, as if they were saying, "Wish you were a boy!"

I was the only girl on the little league team. Until 1979, I was the only girl little league player in all of our county. Of course, I was a tomboy, but still, the boys weren't always particularly pleased to have little old me playing with them.

Needless to say, after we had been jumping and screaming for several minutes, some of the boys looked kind of mad. It seemed as if they were thinking, "It was all just luck. There's no way a GIRL could pitch like that or make that catch."

Leo Jenkins came over to me. "Good thing that batter sucked so bad, or you never would have been able to make that catch, or get so many strikes." I noticed quite a few of the other boys agreeing outright with him, and others lowered their heads so I couldn't see that they, too, agreed. I was very enraged. I had made a perfectly good catch, and I knew for a fact that I was the best pitcher on the team. Whoever had been batting on the other team must have been very good, too, to have been able to hit, even poorly, my curveball.

The boys slowly dispersed, walking home or to the burger place around the corner. None asked me to join them. After all, I was just a lowly girl, even if I did help us to win.

I walked to the stands, sat on the highest tier, staring glumly at the field. 

"That was sure some pitch that you have." A boys voice came from below me. I looked down. Coming up the bleachers towards me was a boy, sweaty and a little dirty. He had dark hair and dak eyes.

"Thanks." I grinning. He looked familiar. 

"So, I hear you guys are going to tri-county now?" He asked, squeezing a cap in his hands. The logo flashed at me: Lions.

"Yeah. That was a great hit you made, at the end." He was the batter whose ball I had caught at the very end of the game.

He grinned wryly. "Not good enough," He stuck out his hand, "I'm John Carter."

I giggled. No kid my age had every shaken hands with me before. "I'm Abby Wycenski." We solemnly shook hands. "I haven't seen you around before, except when you play ball. What street do you live on?" 

He cleared his throat. "Actually, I live a few miles away, over on Dartmouth." 

I raised my eyebrows. Dartmouth was a street where really rich people lived. People who made a million bucks at work even before lunch time. People who's kids all had trust funds. People who competed in horse jumping competitions, people who got manicures, even the men. People who had two cars, sometimes three or four or more. People who had live-in maids and house managers. The people who lived on Dartmouth didn't have depressed, manic people for mothers. Those people hadn't been hippies during last decade, and those people never had to wear the same pair of jeans until there were patches on top of patches on both the knees. Over there, girls didn't play baseball and only wore dresses and played with dolls with china faces. 

I looked towards the street. A limo was idling on the side of the road. I pointed at it. "Is that yours?" I asked him, curious.

He blushed. "Not mine. The families." 

I nodded my head. He didn't even seem to realize how impressive it was to get to drive home from a baseball game in a limo. "Do you have to leave?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "Naw. They'll wait for me. It's not like the driver can just drive away and leave me here, or my Gamma and my parents would have a fit." 

Again, I was amazed. If my mother were to come and pick me up after any event, she would expect me waiting for her exactly on time, if not early. Mostly, though, my mother didn't pick me up after anything. I either had to walk home or get a ride with a friend's parents. And sometimes, my mother would forget what time it was that she was supposed to pick me up, and she would arrive three hours late, scream at me, and then drive home in silence.

John stood up. "Hey, I've got a ball here, could you maybe pitch that same way to me a few times? Just to see if I can hit it."

"Sure thing."

We jumped down the bleachers to the grass. I walked to the mound and pitched hard. He swung, missed, grinned sheepishly and threw the ball back to me. "Let's try it again." 

I pitched it again, and this time, he swung at the right time. The ball made a satisfying crack against the bat and went sailing off into rightfield. "That's the way to do it!" I yelled to him. I ran to retrieve the ball. 

We both practiced pitching and hitting for a half hour, and then the driver finally beeped the horn on the long black limo. John looked at me. "This was fun. Do you come here often?"

"To the park? I come almost everyday." 

John grinned. "Great. I'll come back tomorrow. By the way, what school do you go to?"

"Lincoln Elementary. I'll be in the fourth grade in the fall. Where do you go?"

"Charles Hawthorn Day School. I'll be in the second grade. I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, he skipped off.

I watched him leave. I hadn't realized that he was younger than me, especially by a full two years. He was as tall as I was and didn't sound like a baby, but he had to be six or seven. But he was the only boy who would associate with me, and that was something.

I waved goodbye to the retreating limo, and I'm sure that John was waving back through the tinted window, even though I couldn't see him, I knew he was there.


	4. Dave

NOTE: This chapter is about Dave's childhood, but doesn't involve any of the other characters from ER and also doesn't take place solely in the year 1978. However, I felt that it still could be in this series as it is about his childhood. And remember, be a good reader and review this!

  
  


CHAPTER FOUR: DAVE

  
  


"You can't make me." I told my older sister, after being asked to clean up a few toy trucks that were on the floor. 

Lisa rolled her eyes. "Actually, I can make you. I can tell you that you get no desert tonight and no TV and no playing outside."

I crossed my arms, belligerent. Who did she think she was, my mother? 

"Or I could just wait until Daddy gets home and let him see this mess for himself."

With that, I began angrily picking up my trucks. Lisa was only eleven, for God's sake. And I had turned six two weeks ago. That made her only five years older than me, and not at all old enough to be forcing me to do chores. But it was true that I did not want my father to get home and see the mess that I had been creating that day.

I wished, suddenly, for my mother. She had died when I was three, the result of falling down the stairs and breaking her neck. I had only one clear, distinct memory of her. 

In my memory, she was sitting in an armchair in the den, her stomach round with another sister or brother. I was sitting next to her, crunched into the small space beside her. She held open in front of her a story book. The Little Engine That Could, it was called, and it was my favorite books. She had a glass of water on the table beside her, and would periodically take sips from it as she read the story aloud to me. I remember that her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and I could see a dark bruise under the eyes that was closest to me. The story was almost done, just another four pages or so when my father got home from work. He stormed into the room, asking where dinner was. My mother sprang up, her eyes downcast, as she tried to explain that the oven was broken and when she called the repair shop, they had said they couldn't send someone over until the next day. My mother suggested going out for dinner, just for once. My father seemed to grow larger and larger as he approached us. My mother had her back to me, and I curled up in the chair, trying to hide in the cushions. My father hit my mother, across the mouth.

"Do you think we're rich? Think we can just afford to go out for dinner whenever we want?"

My mother began shaking her head rapidly. "No, no, not at all, but there's nothing else to do! The oven's broken, there's nothing-"

He cut her off. "To hell with the oven! How did you break it? Were you so fed up with cooking that you broke the stupid thing in hopes that we could go out for dinner? You have to be punished for misbehavior like that!" He hit her again, this time a punch, right where I had been looking at her earlier bruise. She began to cry. Seeing her cry made me cry, too.

"What are you crying about?" My father picked me up off the chair, almost tenderly. 

I didn't answer, which was a very bad idea.

"I said, what are you crying about?" He yelled into my face. I winced at the smell of beer, tried to pull away. He began shaking me, repeating himself over and over again. I felt like my arms were coming detached from my body and like my brain would soon shake loose of whatever was holding it in.

I began screaming with pain.

My mother, usually one for standing in passive silence, finally came to the defense of one of her children. "Stop it! Stop it, you're hurting him!" She shrieked at my father. 

My father instantly dropped me. I landed on the ground, still screaming. I looked at my arm and it seemed as if my left arm had two shoulders. Seeing the site made me scream even more, and harder.

My father hit my mother, repeatedly, until she fell down. Then he kicked her, twice, in the ribs. Both my mother and I were sobbing then. My father took one look at the both of us, whispered, "I'm sorry," and left the house, taking the car keys with him. After several minutes, my mother crawled to the phone, where she called a cab to take us to the hospital. She left my sister, Lisa, in charge of my other sister and brothers. The cab arrived, and we painfully made our way to the hospital, where I was treated for a dislocated shoulder, and my mother for three broken ribs, a cheek fracture, and needed stitches across her forehead.

She told the doctors there that she had been going down the stairs, holding me in her arms, when she fell.

We went home, and it was less than a month later that my mother died. Her death certificate stated, "Cause of Death: Accident upon stairs." That, too, was a lie.

"David!" Lisa shouted at me. I broke out of my daydream. I was still standing in the middle of the den, holding a truck by a wheel. I finished cleaning up the den, taking away my few trucks to my room, where I put them away, exactly where they belonged, on the shelf above my bed.

I went to the kitchen, next, to find Lisa. She was busy making dinner. Baked chicken and mashed potatoes, plus a salad. I climbed onto the counter to watch her cook. 

Minutes had gone by when my father got home. It was just after five thirty, which meant that he hadn't gone to a bar yet, so was most likely sober. When he was sober, he was great. 

"How's my kids? Do anything fun today?" He asked, kissing me first, then Lisa. "Where are Casey and Sara?" 

Casey and Sara came running down the stairs. Casey had probably been practicing with his yoyo, and Sara had probably been reading a book. 

My father kissed them both, and we sat down for dinner. He told us jokes, and we told him about our days. It a stranger had walked in then, it would have seemed like a nice, happy family, minus a mother. 

Days like those were days that I liked. I wished everyday could be like that. In fact, most days were like that. It was only after a hard day at work when my father would come home, mad like hornets after your kickball accidentally goes into their nest. Those days, he would sometimes hit us around a little. Occasionally, on those days, he would just go to his room with a couple of paper bags, and we wouldn't hear from him until the mornings. A few times, he would bring a scantily clad girl home with him. Some of them couldn't have been older than sixteen. Lisa told us, once, before our father got home from work, that these girls were hookers.

We hoped and prayed that if our father was going to be drunk, that he would have a hooker with him. Whenever the hookers were with him, he seemed almost jovial. True, he was drunk, but when he had those hookers, he was almost likeable, strange as that may sound.

But those times when he was drunk and there was no hooker were the worst. And for some reason, he always seemed to hate me the most. I can't explain it. Maybe it's because of the time my mother stuck up for me. She never stuck up for any of my other siblings. Maybe it's because I'm the youngest. There would have been another kid, three years younger than me, if only he hadn't shoved her and beat her up so many times that she finally died.

I don't know exactly why he hated me so much more than the other kids, but he did. He would lock me into the closet sometimes, leaving me there for several days at a time. Lisa would slip food to me under the door, but not much could fit and she didn't have the key. Once, after my father got fired, I was in the closet for a full week. By the time I finally got out, I was sick with hunger, and the closet smelled like a barn after I had to pee and poop so many times. Being so hungry made me throw up for some reason, too, and blood drops stained the carpet from where I had cut my hands, banging on the door. And he made me clean up the mess before I was allowed any food. I was weak from hunger, but I managed to clean, with the help of Lisa.

At night, I would lie in my bed, thinking of ways to get my father back. But I was just a kid, and there was no way. There was nothing I could do to him without getting myself beaten up, or even killed.

Lisa told me that there had been another kid. Erik had been his name. He was two years older than me, but I never knew him. My father was drunk one night, threw a glass at Erik, and then went to bed. The force of the glass knocked Erik out, and the cut was long and deep enough that by morning, he had lost so much blood and he couldn't be saved.

Cause of Death: Accident from falling down stairs.

The doctors at the local hospital must have thought that my family was the most clumsy, unbalanced people in Chicago, the way we kept dying off from accidents on the stairs. 

I thought that I could bear living with my father until he hurt Lisa. Lisa had always been our protector. She was the oldest by just a year, with Casey the next below her, but yet, she seemed infinitely older and more mature. She had calmed our father down when he was at his worst, and had tended to our wounds when we were bleeding. Even when she couldn't persuade our father not to hit us, she could at least usually drag us away when he was done, tell us stories while she bandaged us so we wouldn't cry. 

He came home from work that day, and we could tell right off the bat how angry he was. We could also smell the alcohol radiating off him, the fumes almost making us dizzy with drunkenness. He banged into the kitchen. "Lisa!" He shouted.

"Dinner's ready right now, Dad. Your favorite! Roast beef, and-" Her voice was trembling. She, too, knew that expression on his face.

"I don't want dinner. I want you to come to my room." 

Lisa looked furtively at Casey, and he just shook his head. There was nothing he could do.

Casey turned off the oven, took out the roast beef. We silently began to eat at the table. We could hear my father talking to Lisa, but we couldn't make out the words. After a while, things were quiet. The whole house seemed to be waiting for something.

Lisa didn't come out of his room. After eleven that evening, Casey finally made us go to bed.

We woke up in the morning. Lisa was sitting at the kitchen table, one eyes swollen shut, her hair looking like a birds nest. She refused to speak to any of us.

It took years, but Lisa finally admitted to us what had happened when I was ten. Our father had raped her. She lost the sparkle in her eyes, and her hair became dull. I think it was then that I began stealing. At first, I just stole gum and baseball cards. As the early 80's became the mid 80's and then the late 80's, I began stealing more and more. Cigarettes, beer, even jewelry for my girlfriend. I was sixteen when I got my girl pregnant. It was that same year I finally got into real trouble with the police. 

And yet, after my teen years slipped away, I finally got my life straightened out. My daughter, Maria, named after my mother, lived with me every other weekend and throughout the entire summer. And I hugged her every time I saw her, and kissed her cheek. But I never, ever laid my hands on her in any way that would hurt her. 

I vowed to myself that I would never let happen to her what happened to Lisa. 

Lisa, distraught from the rape, became a crack addict. After she turned 20, she too managed to straighten out her life. She went to college late after getting a GED, and managed to be 6th in a class of 430 at the college. She became a lawyer. Casey became a teacher and Sara got married to a business consultant.

We all managed to make it out okay. We survived our father, who died at age 49, when I was 24, of liver cancer.

We all went to his funeral, but none of us shed a tear. 


	5. Luka

  
  


IAuthor's Note: This is the fifth chapter in a series. They can all be read separately or in order, it doesn't really matter. I hope you enjoy this one. I've gotten requests to do a big party or something to get all the characters of ER together, and I'll try to do that next./I

  
  
  
  


Chapter Five: Luka

  
  


I guess, officially, the mother's are organizing a neighborhood picnic to raise money for their latest cause. Unofficially, it's for the mother's to have a mass squawk session, all worrying about their kids, the schools, the park, and rapists who may be lurking in any number of places, just waiting to see some little kid go by. The picnic is also for the men to stand around together, drinking beer and comparing cars. The kids will be running amuck, playing baseball, kick-the-can, or spin the bottle whenever the adults weren't looking.

That particular Fourth of July weekend was just as every one in all years in recent memory had been: The entire neighborhood, or most of it, anyway, was clustered at the park, eating hot dogs fresh of the grill, cooked by Mr. Greene, and eating brownies baked by Mrs. Weaver. The kids all had purple mouths from drinking grape Kool-Aid, and the teenagers were all sitting around in groups, looking bored, but still having a good time.

And I was sitting by myself, a hot dog and an apple in front of me, staring at a beautiful girl, dark curly hair whipping around her face in the light breeze. She was sitting with several other girls, Susan Lewis, Anna Del Amico, and Elizabeth Corday. But even in the midst of her three best friends, I could clearly see that Carol, the girl of my dreams, wasn't sharing in the conversation with them. Her eyes were diverted, and staring at-Me! My eyes went wide, watching this beautiful girl as she grinned at me. I smiled back, eagerly. And-she lifted her hand in a wave! Now she's waving at me! I waved back. What would Carol want with me? Since when had Carol even known me? And then, she beckoned. I almost knocked the bench over, jumping up so quickly. I began striding over to her, trying to look handsome and manly, when I heard from just behind me-

"Hey, you." It was Doug. Neighborhood heartthrob, and only 13 years old. I stopped jogging and watched. I should have known better. Of course, it wasn't me that Carol had been waving at, it was Doug, who was nearby. I quickly diverted my path and walked to a group of other kids, pretending that it had been them that I had been planning on visiting all along.

I watched, silently, as Doug hugged Carol. She, a year younger than him, looked overjoyed to see him. She looked so gorgeous, bouncing up and down in her white Keds, talking rapidly from happiness to who must be her first boyfriend. 

Even though I had never met Doug, I knew that I did not like him. 

An hour went by, and I made my way to the fringe of several groups, almost a member of some, but never quite accepted. I'm not sure if it was my accent, still deep from living in Croatia. But then again, Elizabeth Corday had her own accent, and no one seemed to notice. Maybe it was just my dashing good looks that caused people to look at my suspiciously. Of course, that was a joke. 

As fireworks were going off in the sky and the father's were on their fifth and sixth rounds of beers and the mother's were making sure their kids didn't get too close to the firecrackers, I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. I turned around in surprise.

It was Carol. "Hi, want to watch the fireworks with me?" She asked, her perfect white teeth gleaming from the flash.

I just nodded, dumbly.

She lead me to a secluded area. I noticed that there were tears on her face.

"What's wrong?" I asked her. With that, she burst into tears. I didn't know what to do. Cautiously, I reached out and wiped the tears off her face. It seemed to cheer her up slightly; at least she stopped crying.

"I broke up with Doug," She told me, her eyes drilling holes into my own.

"I'm sorry," I told her, "Don't cry."

She sniffled a few times. "He's moving, far away. Seattle. He's moving tomorrow, and he just told me now. He said he wanted the end of his time here to be happy, so that's why he waited so long to tell me. And now I'm all alone!" Tears began flowing down her face again, and I pulled her to me. 

Her shoulders were so delicate under my hands, shaking from silent sobs. After several minutes, she finally sat back up, to look at me once more. "Are you shy or something?" She asked me, directly.

I didn't quite understand. "What?"

"Whenever I see you, you don't come over and talk, you usually just hang around the edges of things."

Maybe that's how I seemed to her, but I really wanted to be accepted. 

We watched the rest of the fireworks display, me gently stroking her arm. As they ended, I looked at her, and I didn't even realize what was coming until it was over.

My first kiss! Probably not her first kiss, as she acted so natural about it, but mine! A first! I became a man! 

And being such a dork of a man, I high-tailed it out of there, embarrassed by the encounter.

I saw her again the next day. She came skipping up to meet me. She looked mildly upset, and told me that Doug had left earlier that morning. Then she shrugged. 

"I can't do anything about it now." She told me. 

She invited me to help her find a new bike. Her parents, for her birthday, had given her enough money for a new bicycle, and today was the day she hoped to purchase it, and she wanted me there to assist in the buying. I happily agreed. Of course I would help this wonderful goddess find a new bike.

We went to three bike shops before we found one that she loved. It was a red ten-speed with a basket on the front. Her old bike was pink and a hand-me-down from her older sister. The new one was shiny and fresh looking, while her old one had peeling paint and dirt crusted over the frame. Carol was exulted by the purchase of such an obviously wonderful bicycle.

We saw each other nearly every day, and I truly thought that she was happy with me. But shortly after Doug left, she sneaked into my bedroom after midnight, her eyes huge in her pale face.

"Luka," She whispered. "I miss Doug so much. I can't help it. I sold my bike back to the shop, and I'm taking a Greyhound to Seattle. I'm not running away, I'm running to Doug. I have to be with him." She kissed me, softly, on the mouth. Still half asleep, I reached out to her, but she was gone, back through the window she had come through so quietly.

I watched as she left, pedaling quickly under the streetlights. I knew that leaving had been a mistake, but I hadn't loved her. I realized, in that moment, that then I had really become a man, not when I had my first kiss. I was able to watch her walk out of my life to be with another boy-or perhaps a man-and I didn't fight to keep her. I understood, somehow, that she wasn't mine; she was Doug's, and that it would have killed her to stay away from him for much longer. 

I touched my fingers to my lips, and then turned them to the moon, visible through my window, and that seemed enough of a goodbye for me.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
